


Revenge of the Rohirrim

by Persephone



Series: The Men of Myth Convention [2]
Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, Men of Myth Convention, The Iliad - Homer, Troy (2004)
Genre: Bar Room Brawl, Conventions, Gen, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-11
Updated: 2011-12-11
Packaged: 2017-10-27 04:46:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/291768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Persephone/pseuds/Persephone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Each year, a Men of Myth Convention takes place in modern day Orlando, Florida, in which characters from legend and myth appear at a five-day convention to do panels and get into all kinds of fucked up things like get drunk in bars.</p><p>In this fic, in a bar across the street from the Marriott Hotel, the Riders of the Mark and the Guards of Minas Tirith have had too much to drink, and the topic turns to politics. And, as with all discussions of politics, things get turbulent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Revenge of the Rohirrim

**Author's Note:**

> The Men of Myth Convention is a crossover universe invented by [Stewardess](http://archiveofourown.org/users/stewardess/).

Haleth was inebriated and knew he, his brother Háma, and the rest of his men were straining the edges of their opponents’ patience. But to the abyss with these Men of Gondor and their _Mighty of the West_ horse dung. Everyone knew who always saved their pampered rears when it came down to it.

The Riders had long burned to stick it to them, and now here they were with the so-called Guards of Minas Tirith, face to face in a bar. The revelry was only just beginning, as far as he was concerned. Especially since their father, Helm Hammerhand, was no where in sight, no doubt still roaming around the Norse Gods Pavilion back at the Convention Center.

Haleth had been happy to start the ribbing, and he and his men were _more_ than happy to finish it with a good hard thrashing.

“But, Mithrandir!” he whined in a girlish manner into the face of Beleg, a Captain of their Guard, and the Gondorian closest to him. “My locks are so pretty and I just had them done! _Must_ I fight?”

The Rohirrim around him broke apart with stifled snickers. Haleth hadn’t been at the Siege of Gondor, but everyone knew the story.

Beleg’s expression darkened dangerously, and a soldier from the group behind him shifted menacingly. Beleg extended his arm to stop the man’s further movement. He eyed Haleth.

Haleth pouted at him. “Is that Shadowfax? Why, I’ve heard of him! Pretty horsey…”

“Nazgul! Nazgul!” Háma shrieked in mock distress, and Haleth turned and cuddled him.

“There, there, pretty soldier,” he cooed, stroking Háma’s head. Háma was face down on the bar, laughing himself to drunken tears. “There is no need to fear. The sons of Eorl are just over yonder rise. They will take care of us. It is what they do.”

Beleg snorted derisively. “The way you clamor, one would think the Rohirrim invented the concept of the alliance.”

His men murmured their accord, sneering vaguely in their direction. Haleth steamed.

“Alliance?!” he shouted. _High-handed snots!_

“Settle down over there,” the bartender called tiredly from behind the bar.

Haleth ignored him. “Would you like me to take you on a tour of your perpetual _salvation?_ Let us begin then with the Battle of the Plains. If our Marhwini had not broken the strength of the Wainriders at that point in time, Gondor—”

One of the Guards exclaimed in disgust, pushing his way to the front, only to be stopped by Beleg. “You wish to take credit as the victors in that battle? The Wainriders won, you addle-pated nitwit!”

“Gondor would have been _completely_ lost, occupied entirely, and your White City an idea whose time would never have come. _And yet,_ ” Haleth shouted, “we have not even reached the part where Eorl the Young rides to the Field of Celebrant to stroke your Steward’s—”

“Ah, no,” Háma purred. “That would be the Steward who wished to stroke Eorl’s—”

“Shut your mouths, you thatch dwellers,” another soldier called from behind their Captain. “And to think we gave you that worthless piece of land you call Rohan for that.”

“Then we get to Théoden King,” Haleth cried, not to be distracted, shaking his fists. “King of Kings.” The Rohirrim hailed, raising their cups. “With his horns and riders like a great wind upon the Pelennor, but for which, and I _quote,_ the return of the King _would have been in vain!_ ”

The blond men around him roared and banged their cups against the bar, against each other’s cups. Háma pounded his back, and Haleth eyed the Guards as their faces flushed darkly.

Beleg stared back at him with slitted eyes in a storm-hard face.

Haleth knew Beleg’s fuse was short. He had experienced it last night in his hotel room when Beleg had declared himself Haleth’s _rohir_ and taken him on an earth-shattering ride.

But Haleth was drunk, and having too much fun to stop now.

“Say what you will of your common kings,” Beleg spat. “But do not dare bring any Kings of Gondor into this.”

“Oh, of course not!” Haleth crowed loudly. “That is the very _idea,_ is it not? _Shhh!_ No mention of the dirty little secret!”

“What secret?!” Háma cried in mock horror.

“Why didn’t you know?” Haleth threw his arm over his brother’s shoulder and shook him. He whispered so all could hear. “The Men of Gondor have an _aversion_ to Kings.”

“Heh, heh, heh,” Háma snickered under his breath. “Welcome to Gondor. No Kings Allowed.”

Haleth was too drunk to see the blow Beleg swung in his direction, but the next thing he knew his chest seemed to have caved in and men were crashing down on top of each other like a collapsing stone wall.

Haleth felt Beleg’s weight on top of him and shoved with all his might, but tangled their legs so that Beleg could not fall far from him.

He was having the time of his life at this convention.

But suddenly like a bolt of thunder, a great figure crashed into their midst, and with arms like thick branches of elms, shoved a gap in their midst.

The men, Rohirrim and Gondorian alike, bellowed in surprise, and while some of them struck at the intruder in reflexive response, Haleth gasped and stayed down, fearing that their father had barged upon he and his brother drinking and causing trouble in a cheap foreign tavern.

Haleth cursed in a quiet groan and covered his face with his hands.

But at least Beleg had not untangled his hot, hard limbs from around his lower body.

~*~

 _End_


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